


[tumblr prompts] for what it's worth

by orphan_account



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Individual Chapters Will Have Individual Warnings, M/M, prompt collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 07:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A collection of completed prompts for Beck and Peter.





	1. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ CONTAINS FFH SPOILERS! ]

Why was he doing this? It felt stupid. Pointless in a way that most things felt these days. He didn’t owe Quentin Beck anything, least of all his sympathy and, even less than that, _flowers_. The man had single-handedly ruined his life but Peter…

Well, he’d single-handedly _ended_ his. Hadn’t he?

That guilt still kept him up on his worst nights. In retrospect, he knew it wasn’t all his fault. It was a game of chess with numerous pieces in play, but he couldn’t help the memory of Beck laying broken and unbreathing at his feet.

Or, the memory of those dead, vacant look in his eyes haunting him.

And sometimes, even more horrifying, the memory of the way Beck had smiled at him in that bar; the way he patted his shoulder; bought him a drink; told him what he wanted to here; made him feel seen.

So, yeah, maybe flowers were the least he could do.

Peter knelt at the tombstone with his supermarket bouquet, half-wilted roses wrapped in green cellophane, and sat them at the bare space below it.

“Roses? Are you asking me to prom, kid?”

Peter whipped around at the sound of that familiar baritone voice. Instantly alert and with activated web-shooters. He looked to his left, and then right, and then spun, and saw nothing but tombstones and trees for his trouble.

“Beck?” Peter whispered to no one. If he felt stupid before, well, it was nothing compared to now. Beck was dead. He was standing on his grave.

Get it together, Parker.

“Boo.”

This time, when Peter turned, Beck was there, standing behind a slab of stone engraved with a name and two dates. His name. His dates. Birth _and_ death.

Holy shit, what was happening?

“You’re not real,” Peter mumbled. “You’re—this isn’t real.”

Beck frowned a dramatic pout of disappointment, holding out his arms as if to give Peter the full view.

_Look your fill_, it said.

And so—Peter did. It certainly looked like Beck, only without the armor or the cape or the stupid mocap suit. No blood or sweat or malice.

Just Beck.

“You’re—”

“Dead?” Beck asked, and Peter swallowed. He seemed almost offended. “You really think I’d die so easy?”

Nothing came to him; utterly frozen to the spot. He should do something, right? Web him up, kick his ass, call Fury. Something, anything.

But, Peter did nothing but shake his head. Because no, he’d never really believed someone like Beck could roll over and die. His stomach turned. The ground suddenly felt hollow beneath his feet. Standing above an empty casket and faced with a ghost.

A stupid, asshole ghost in a black suit. Who looked as handsome and smug as Peter remembered. Who was circling the tombstone and getting closer and, oh god—

Peter stumbled back right as a solid, broad hand found his cheek and grounded him. Not an illusion. Not a dream. Not a nightmare. He was warm, and real, and alive.

Beck was alive.

Oh god.

_Beck was alive._

Peter had never felt so conflicted. But Beck was still holding onto his face, his thumb stroking idly. His smile feral, full of teeth, and betraying every ounce of his desire to bite.

“How?” Peter managed to get out in a hoarse whisper. “How’d you do it?”

“I told you. I had contingency plans.”

Not really an answer but, Peter let it slide. He couldn’t concentrate, not when there was a thumb tracing his bottom lip, pulling it down. He fought the urge to chase it with his tongue. Instead, asked— “Okay. Why?”

“You’re a smart kid,” Beck said, wry smile and drawing close enough for his breath to fan along Peter’s cheek, making him shiver. “Figure it out.”


	2. Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:
> 
> For the beckpeter prompts: they are undercover and have to pretend that they're dating and it might be more than just pretending ( they also suddenly have to kiss each other like natasha and steve in captain america the winter soldier as to not blow their cover) thank you ❤

“You got it?”

Peter nodded, stifling back a yawn. He’d been listening to Beck ramble for a solid thirty minutes. Well, more like he’d been staring blankly through him with his chin in his hand, nodding for what felt like an eternity. They’d already been briefed back at the precinct, and again in the squad card, and again on a conference call earlier that morning.

But he was nothing but a rookie in Beck’s eyes, and so he heard the whole spiel for the umpteenth time in twenty-four hours. Honestly, his ears were about to bleed. It wasn’t his fault that Beck was disgruntled about being partnered with a newbie twenty years his junior.

Or, maybe it was kinda his fault.

Peter had pull with the chief and an outstanding record of scores and glowing reviews from all his superiors. Maybe he used that to his advantage to get assigned a high-profile case at twenty-three. And, maybe, there had been a bit of hero-worship in the works.

Until that had promptly been ruined.

“Got it?” Beck repeated, leaning in closer across the table. Trying to be serious, like always. But last year at the annual office party, some old yearbook pictures had circulated and well—

Let’s just say, Former President of the Drama Club, Quentin Beck, hardly intimidated him anymore.

“It’s pretty cut and dry.” Peter smiled and got nothing but a bored, flat look in return. Whatever, he knew he was bluffing. Beck just liked to play bitter. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Great,” Beck said. He stood and rounded the table, slapping Peter on the back. “Come on.”

\--

Okay, so maybe Peter should have paid a little bit more attention during the countless debriefings.

He knew the basics. They were undercover, some big drug ring being taken down from inside. They needed to get some information on the leader of this whole circus, and they were strung up with wires like a Christmas tree.

But this was his first sting operation. He was nervous. Sue him.

Peter rolled his shoulders, trying to nonchalantly adjust the mic taped to his chest. Beck shot him a look and cleared his throat, going back to playing the part of a grim, brooding hunk of a man. It was kind of impressive how much he looked the part; slicked back hair and perfectly clipped beard, blue eyes that looked like they’d seen some shit.

And that leather jacket…

Oh god.

Peter took a sip of his water disguised as vodka on the rocks.

“You good, kid?” Beck wasn’t looking at him, just letting his gaze sweep the crowded club. There were bodies everywhere, grinding and dancing to the thump of bass. They probably looked suspicious as all get out, just standing like wallflowers.

“Yeah,” Peter shouted over the music. “Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, dancing?”

Beck cut his eyes over, and woah, he actually looked amused. Peter swallowed hard. A hand snaked around his waist, and then his hip, and then he was being pulled closer, flush against Beck with a light squeeze.

Oh, alright. Okay.

Peter’s fingers flexed around his glass and he stared at the floating ice cubes and sprig of mint. Because, yeah, this was a ploy and he was bone-dry sober, but he didn’t trust himself to turn his head. Beck, bastard that he was, was still devastatingly handsome and still devastatingly his type.

The aforementioned bastard leaned in, so close that his nose bumped against Peter’s temple, and his beard tickled his ear. “We are being watched,” he whispered.

Great. Peter knew that probably meant nothing good. Sure enough, his eyes found two huge men dressed in black at either side of the exit. He didn’t need x-ray vision to know they were packing. His own weapon was hidden securely in the holster concealed beneath his blazer, but it didn’t really make him feel any safer. Not when they were so outnumbered.

They needed a distraction.

Peter was _good_ at distractions.

He turned in Beck’s arms, playing drunk and coy. Those blue eyes widened, confused for a moment, before they softened into something almost sweet. A good look for him, if Peter were being honest. They were nice eyes, and those were warm hands sliding up his back, rucking up the carefully placed bugs; sliding into the short hair at his nape.

Peter closed his eyes and rocked forward.

“Kiss me,” he whispered, full-tilt panic mode activated.

Beck broke character for a split second, gaze flirting down to Peter’s sternum where there was a mic secured. The whole van a couple blocks down just heard him. They better not hear him get rejected too.

Peter tugged Beck closer. “Unless you wanna give those goons any more of a reason to be suspicious.”

Two things happened in that moment.

One, Peter learned how dedicated Quentin Beck was to his role.

Because, two, he was kissed. Like, really kissed. Hard and filthy, with teeth and lips and tongue. Oh god, he was weak in the knees with it. Peter opened his mouth and let the hunger take over. Didn’t even care that their entire crew could probably hear his soft moans and whimpers. Not when Beck was nipping at his bottom lip and curling his fingers in his hair.

Peter cut his eyes over to the door. There were no more eyes on them. In fact, it looked like they were purposely trying to avoid the corner of the bar where Peter was getting thoroughly ravished.

Worked like a charm.

No reason to continue.

Peter looped his arms around Beck’s broad shoulders and let his eyes fall shut once more.

Or, who knew, maybe there was.


End file.
